Rafael's Mermaid
by and her magical cat Roscoe
Summary: WIP. A BillPam fic. Set Post Series. Ralph made a big mistake. Now Pam's gone and Bill's on her trail. When he finds her, will they reignite the fire they lit last Christmas? Sequel to VOLCADA. Adult situations, Language. Bonus chapters to be M rated.
1. Petals: Chapter 1

**Rafael's Mermaid**

_Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or situations created for TGAH; I am borrowing them purely for entertainment purposes and am making no profit from their use. Thank you to Stephen J. Cannell, the cast, producers, writers, directors, and crew for giving us this wonderful, timeless show and the characters that bring it to life. _

------------------

Author's Note:

This story continues the arc of **Volcada**. As with Volcada, chapters of more explicit adult content will be published under the "M" rating. Those chapters will not contain significant plot points. Author's notes will point out where additional content would fall within the story. Part 1 has no "M" rated content.

------------------

**PART 1**

Petals

------------------

CHAPTER 1

Another bouquet exploded in a fountain of red petals. Federal special agent Bill Maxwell shook the flower fragments from his revolver.

He'd been in rougher shootouts, he decided, but this one took the prize for sweetest smelling. Trouble was, it wasn't a good time to stop and smell the roses.

Maxwell put his back to the industrial-sized roll of green cellophane serving as his cover and shoved his hand into the inner pocket of his khaki windbreaker. He jerked out the cigarette lighter-shaped communicator and held it to his mouth.

"Ralph!" he hissed into the mouthpiece "Ralph, come in already. I could really use a little backup here, kid."

He waited.

Nothing. He shoved the communicator back in his pocket and hunkered down farther.

The problem, he thought, with pinning down the bad guys in a closed box like this warehouse workshop was you were just as likely to get pinned down yourself. Nobody could get back to the door they'd all come through.

In this case, the gunnies firing from across the warehouse floor had the advantage. There were three of them, meaning they had three times as much ammo.

And if they started to run low, they could always try to get to the stooge he had dropped by the locked loading dock door and grab his clip. The guy wasn't using it. He was too busy moaning and clutching the through-hole in his leg.

No, the other three would more likely rush him first, Maxwell knew. Hoods like this didn't play the long game.

Another rattling burst of gunfire thudded into the bale of plastic. A few stray rounds splattered across the row of funeral wreaths lined up against the wall he was facing, tearing through a ribbon banner that read "RIP August 1983." Maxwell was glad he didn't go in for symbolism.

A single shot pinged off the wide metal utility cupboard standing against the warehouse wall. On the middle shelf, one of the frog-shaped planters blew apart, throwing up a hail of green pottery shards.

Maxwell grimaced and cast a glance around, looking for fresh cover. The bale of cellophane had the stopping power of rhino skin, but a few more volleys and the entire contents of that cupboard were going to be crunching underfoot like 20 pounds of cornflakes.

That in itself wasn't a bad thing. The frogs were ugly as sin and he thought smashing them was probably doing the world of pottery planters a favor.

The downside was that Mediterranean blue ceramic bowl would be smithereens, too. He'd noticed it almost the second he rolled upright from his dive over the bale of cellophane. Something about the color instantly reminded him of Pam. It looked like something she'd like. And he didn't want to see it go up in a shower of fragments before he could buy it.

His survey of the area turned up a dozen stacks of cartons labeled Floral Wire and a crate full of wicker baskets. There was no cover close enough to risk another dive.

Fair enough, he thought, time to change the game. He'd give Ralph one more chance, then he'd take the fight to the floor.

He tugged the communicator back out of his pocket.

"Ralph!" he shouted as softly as possible, "Last call, buddy. The world's gonna be short one Maxwell in a minute if you don't pick up the damned phone."

Silence except for the sound of hushed whispers from the other end of the warehouse. The gunnies were plotting. That had to stop.

Between the three of them, they probably had half a dozen functioning brain cells. But in his experience, Maxwell thought, luck frequently favored the too-stupid-to-know-it-wouldn't-work.

Rising up in a half-crouch, he pivoted on his toes. He took a breath, held it, and raised up over the bale to squeeze off two shots in the direction of Team Einstein.

That got their attention, he thought with satisfaction as he ducked down under a volley of automatic pistol fire and another burst from the rifle.

There was a crash and Maxwell looked up reflexively to check the status of the bowl (still intact). After a moment's confusion, he realized the sound was coming from the communicator.

Somebody was shouting at the other end of the line. Two somebodies.

He could just make out the Counselor's words. They sounded muffled, like she was standing away from the microphone.

"I don't care, Ralph, don't you dare leave this room!" she shouted.

"Look," Ralph was saying, "Just let me get this call from Bill and we'll finish our discussion."

"Discussion! Ralph, this is not a discussion," she said. "This is a fight. We're nowhere near 'discussion' yet. This might end in discussion, or it might end in hysterics, it's really too soon to say."

"Fine," Ralph said, "It's a fight. I still need to take Bill's call first."

"What is it, Bill?" Ralph's voice blared out from the little speaker. "I'm having kind of a rough morning."

"Uh, yeah," Maxwell answered, "Me too. Look, Ralph, I could use a little backup from the flying squad about now."

"Just a minute," Ralph said, "Pam, let me go do this and when I get back we can finish our fight, or discussion, or whatever."

"This really isn't a good time to leave, Ralph," Pam said.

"I realize that," Ralph answered slowly, "But Bill's in trouble."

There was a pause and suddenly Pam's voice blared from the tiny speaker.

"How much trouble are you in, Bill?" she said. "Because it would have to be pretty bad to top the trouble Ralph's in right now."

Maxwell stared at the communicator.

"Uh, well, honey," he said finally, "I got three gunnies here about to make a run at me. It's not the worst trouble I ever been in but I'd give it about an 8 out of 10 on the 'oh, shit' scale."

There was a pause and her voice came back softer as if she'd walked away from the mic.

"Fine," she said. "Go help Bill. But I can't sit here waiting for you to get back. I'm going out."

"I understand," Ralph said. "You do what you need to do. When you feel like coming back, we'll talk."

Maxwell winced.

Congratulations, Ralph, he thought. There wasn't a lot you could say that was less like what she wanted to hear right then.

"I may be late myself," Ralph went on. "I need to talk to Rhonda."

Unless it was that, Maxwell thought.

Rhonda. Damn it.

Maxwell barely noticed the volley of shots that splattered across the wall in front of him.

"Who you talkin' to, cop?" shouted one of the gunnies. "You callin' back-up or praying?"

There was a burst of high-pitched laughter.

"Where are you, Bill?' Ralph's voice sounded from the communicator.

"Uh, Toyotoma's on Eighth. Flower District," Maxwell said. "Warehouse behind the store."

"I'll be there in a minute," Ralph said and the comm went dead.

Rhonda.

Maxwell felt his outrage building. His hands and face felt hot. Rhonda. Of all the stupid-

"Hey, cop," called one of the gunnies. "You dead yet?"

There was another burst of laughter. The three stooges were cracking themselves up.

Fine, Maxwell thought, let them get cocky. He could use that. He needed the distraction from thinking about his idiot partner, anyway.

The spokesman had a high, reedy voice. It sounded like the tall one with the spiky white-blond hair. His buddies probably called him Stretch. They seemed like guys with a lot of imagination.

"It's gonna take a little more than three dime-store hoods to ring my bell, Stretch," Maxwell shouted over his shoulder.

Judging by the sudden silence, he'd scored a bulls-eye with "Stretch." There was also a scrawny, youngish one. "Junior" would do for him, Maxwell thought.

It was the third one that was worrying him. He was a fireplug of a guy; as wide as he was tall and all muscle from the glimpse Maxwell had gotten of his neck. Calling him "Tiny" seemed to fit their sense of humor. Tiny would be as tough to drop with a single shot as a charging bull.

"We got you outnumbered, cop," Stretch shouted at last. "Let us out the door and maybe we won't hurt you."

"Keep dreaming, Stretch," Maxwell answered. "But seeing as how it's Sunday morning and all I really want is a fresh cup of crank and the funny papers, I'm willing to cut you a break to wrap this thing up."

"Here's the drill," he went on, not waiting for them to respond, "The sooner we put a bow on this thing, the easier it'll be on you."

"For instance," he said. "If you throw the guns out now, I'll be so tickled, I might even have a few words with the LA County DA who happens to be a friend of mine. On the other hand, if you make me use up all my nice bullets flushing you turkeys out, I will happily testify that not only did you knock over the 7-Eleven. You ran three red lights and made an illegal lane change fleeing the scene. On top of which, you made me spill my coffee all over my shoes while I was chasing you."

"And just to put some frosting on this cupcake," Maxwell went on, "I gotta tell you, I ain't a cop. I'm a Fed. So you're lookin' at assaulting a Federal officer with a cup of coffee on top of everything else."

He paused. There was the sound of urgently whispered conversation. Maxwell noticed idly that the goon by the backdoor seemed to have passed out. He'd stopped moaning, anyway.

"I'd take the offer, boys," Maxwell shouted. "It's the best one you're going to get for the rest of your lives, the way things are going. And it runs out in-"

He glanced at his watch.

"Sixty seconds," he finished.

They weren't likely to come to the conclusion it was safer to take their chances rushing him in less than sixty seconds, he thought.

He was right. It took sixty-five.

----------------

When Ralph burst through the metal loading dock doors a few minutes later, Bill was lying under Tiny, trying to keep the pile-driver fists from landing another crack on his jaw.

Ralph lifted the thug with one hand and tossed him in a spinning arc to land on top of the semi-conscious Junior. That just left Stretch.

Stretch had been too smart to be the first one around the bale of cellophane. He'd sent Junior and Bruiser around the right side while he circled left.

Maxwell wondered if the two stooges even realized the boss of the outfit had been snapping off shots in their direction while they were trying to jump him. Probably not.

Maxwell actually wasn't sure if it was his shot or Stretch's that had dropped Junior. He was inclined to think it was Stretch. Maxwell didn't typically go for the knees. All the screaming made it hard to concentrate.

Fortunately, Junior had only screamed once before going semi-catatonic.

Now Stretch was standing there, blinking stupidly at Ralph and his bright red super suit. To his credit, Stretch woke up enough to snap off a shot in Ralph's direction.

Unfortunately for him, he aimed it at the emblem on Ralph's chest. The bullet bounced off and skittered across the floor. Ralph plucked the gun from Stretch's slack fingers and pushed him down to the ground.

Stretch collapsed in an awkward half-seated, half-sprawled pose, still staring at Ralph with wide, red-rimmed eyes.

"Man, what are you?" he said in his high-pitched whine.

"Not Superman if that's what you're thinking," Ralph said.

Maxwell was climbing to his feet when Ralph turned around.

"You okay, Bill?" he asked, his bright blue eyes scanning Maxwell's frame. "How bad is that?"

Maxwell looked down and saw the wide rip on the sleeve of his khaki windbreaker. Dark spots of blood were scattered across the fabric and a warm trickle was running down his arm inside the sleeve.

"Just a scratch," he said, ignoring the pain shooting from his bicep to his fingers.

He nodded at the cartons of Floral Wire.

"Grab that and give Stretch a good wrap job," he said. "Somebody musta called the cops by now and I want to be done with this when they get here."

While Ralph pried open one of the cardboard cartons and pulled out a heavy spool of green wire, Maxwell carefully felt along his jaw. He had leaned away just as Bruiser launched his first punch and it only landed with about half the power behind it.

It hurt like blazes and would probably be a nice shade of blue-black in a few hours, but it didn't seem to be broken, Maxwell noticed with satisfaction. That was good because he had a few choice words to share with his partner.

Ralph finished the speed-wrapping routine on Stretch and skidded to a stop. The dazed-looking punk had about 18 feet of green wire wrapped from his waist to his shoulders.

"Yeah," Maxwell said, "That oughta do it. Did you bring your street clothes?"

Ralph cocked his head, looking puzzled.

"No," he said, "I thought this was all you needed me for. If there's more, I can run home."

"This won't wait, Ralph," Maxwell said. "Take the suit off."

Ralph blinked at him, then gave a lopsided grin.

"Bill, this is so sudden," he said. "I had no idea you felt that way."

"Can it, kid," Maxwell said, feeling his aching jaw clench. "Take off the suit. I can't beat you in it, but I can sure as hell beat you out of it."

Ralph's eyes went wide and then narrowed.

"How much did you hear over the communicator?" he said slowly.

"Enough to know you've got this coming," said Maxwell. "Let's go. Get it off."

He carefully slipped the windbreaker off his shoulders and let it slip off his arms to the warehouse floor. As it was falling, he shook out his shirtsleeve to mask the spreading bloodstain.

Ralph shook his head, making his yellow-blond curls bounce.

"I'm not going to fight you, Bill," he said.

"Not for long," Maxwell agreed. "I've seen you take a punch."

"For Chrissakes, Ralph," Maxwell went on, fighting to keep his voice level. "Rhonda? She's what, twenty now? You've got a wife like Pam and you're running around with a Rhonda?"

Ralph looked away and started pacing up and down the floor.

"I wasn't running- look, Bill, you don't know anything about it," Ralph said in a rush. "Most of my students have been held back a year or two. Rhonda's twenty-one and very mature for her age. She and I just-"

Ralph stopped pacing up and looked up at Maxwell, his bright blue eyes darkening.

"As a matter of fact, I don't know why it's your business anyway," he said, his voice rising. "This is really between me and Pam."

"It's my business," Maxwell ground out between his clenched teeth, "Be- because the three of us are a team and your screwing around on the lady you married eight months ago puts the team at risk."

"And I told you last time this happened I'd clean your clock if it happened again," he said. "You shoulda seen this coming the minute you stepped out of line with the Counselor."

"So now I've gotta deck you," he said, "And I'd rather not break my hand doing it, but I will if I have to. So quit stalling and fight me."

"Yeah," Stretch said from the floor. "What are you, chicken, man?"

"Shut up," Ralph and Maxwell said in unison.

A low, throbbing siren wail sounded in the distance, followed by another. It took Maxwell a moment to separate the sound from the blood rushing in his ears.

"That's the cops," Maxwell said, sinking into a bent-legged fighting stance, "Last chance to make this a fair fight, Hinkley. Try to show some backbone for once."

Ralph's mouth set in a tight frown.

"For the last time, Maxwell," he said. "I'm not fighting you."

"Fine," Maxwell said, rocking back on his heels. "Then just stand there and take the punch."

Maxwell let fly with a beauty of a roundhouse punch. He put his whole shoulder and back into it. This punch would make the average man fold like a paper bag. It would brush a trained fighter back a step. It would knock a High School English teacher into the middle of next week. It didn't have much effect on superheroes.

He'd aimed for the sweet spot just at the hinge of Ralph's jaw figuring if there was anyplace the guy'd feel it, it was a few inches above where the suit ended. The punch arced in with a fluid grace that would have been a joy to behold in the ring.

The effect was completely spoiled when Ralph stepped back out of the way with, literally, super-human reflexes.

The follow-through carried Maxwell around in a looping curve. He tried to catch himself with a step forward and ended up staggering into the stacked cartons of floral wire, sending cardboard boxes scattering across the floor with a chorus of rattling thuds.

Ralph was talking as Maxwell pushed himself up off the pile of boxes. He ignored the bloody handprint he left on the cardboard.

"-really don't care for your misplaced sense of chivalry about my wife," Ralph was saying. "I'm going to work this out with Pam one way or another, but I don't need your condemnation in the meantime. So until you hear from me again, I don't think we should work together. You stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours."

Maxwell turned and sagged back against the boxes just in time to see Ralph take three running steps and push off from the loading dock ramp. He disappeared upward in a flash of red and black.

"Damn," said Stretch. "That guy was a real dick."

"Shut up," Maxwell said. The roaring of the blood in his ears wasn't fading and his sight was narrowing into the characteristic tunnel vision he recognized as pre-passing out.

"Hey, man,'" Stretch said. "I'm on your side. You fight good for an old dude. That guy was just a pussy for not throwing down with you."

Maxwell ignored the yammering punk and looked down at his arm. Blood was flowing in a steady rivulet from the tear in his skin. He felt too tired to look for a tourniquet.

"You don't look too good, dude," said Stretch. "That's a lot of blood. You wanna untie me and I'll go get some help?"

"I can get my gun," Maxwell said, panting with the effort of staying upright. "If you think that'd help you shut up."

"Okay, man, okay," Stretch said quickly, "Just trying to be cooperative."

Maxwell managed to stay standing until the first pair of cops appeared in the loading dock door. The next two hours went by in a blur of blue uniforms, followed by white uniforms, followed by the gray suits of the FBI crime tech team.

By the time he'd finished giving his (carefully edited) statement for the third time, some kind soul had brought him a cup of coffee. The soothing warmth of it almost made him feel benign toward the hapless EMT who was trying to talk him into the waiting ambulance.

He only taught the kid three new four-letter words meaning "no" before he finally offered to show him how far a stethoscope could be inserted into the human body. At that point, the kid wisely left him alone. As soon as the ambulance pulled away, Maxwell yanked the blue sling over his head and dropped it to the floor.

Wincing slightly, he tugged his wallet out of his hip pocket. He carefully counted out twenty-five dollars and left it on the utility cupboard. He walked out to his car with the Mediterranean blue ceramic bowl under his arm.

- continued -

Rafael's Mermaid


	2. Petals: Chapter 2

**Rafael's Mermaid**

------------------

**PART 1**

Petals

------------------

CHAPTER 2

He tried calling the Hinkley residence the minute he got back to his car. There was no answer. He tried again on the way to Pam's office in Santa Monica. Still no answer.

Her little white toy car wasn't in the parking lot at the law office, but he went to the reception desk anyway. On a Sunday, the fresh-faced, young security guard at the desk didn't have to consult his sign-in book to know she hadn't been in. Maxwell asked him to do it anyway.

Since he was in Santa Monica, he considered driving by her apartment building. He knew she had given the place up shortly after the wedding in January, but he still thought about driving by. That worried him.

He wasn't sure what he wanted to say to her if he found her. It was the finding that was the important thing.

Not for the first time, he wished he'd gotten around to getting Pam her own communicator. It would be the first thing he did when this mess was sorted out. He tried not to think about what else might be different when that time came.

That first night, he drove by the Hinkley house at 2:00 AM. Only Ralph's station wagon stood in the driveway. He parked down the street and watched until morning. Pam didn't come back.

He was at his desk at the Bureau a few hours later, staring at the phone. A quick glance at his watch confirmed what his internal clock told him. It hadn't been quite an hour since the last time he called her office. Fifteen minutes would put him past the top of the hour. If she was in a meeting all morning, she might be back at her desk then.

"Having a productive day, Maxwell?"

Maxwell jumped in his seat. Carlisle was standing at his elbow, glaring down at him with that slightly constipated expression he always wore in Maxwell's presence. The one that made him look like a bad-tempered squirrel.

"Ah, what?" Maxwell said, pushing the phone aside. "Ah, no, no, not really, Mr. Carlisle."

Carlisle blinked.

"Um, yes, well," Carlisle said and straightened his shoulders.

"No," he went on more firmly. "Clearly you haven't, Maxwell. You keep making one phone call an hour and persistently not doing your paperwork. You had a bust yesterday, I understand. Some petty criminals. Where is the paperwork on that? I've been watching you all morning and I haven't seen it yet."

"You've been watching me all morning, sir?" Maxwell said, feeling a little of his old self come back as he gave Carlisle his best wide-eyed innocent look. "So I guess you haven't been feeling very productive either then."

Carlisle screwed up his mouth in a tight frown.

"We're not talking about me, Maxwell, we're talking about you and your lack of initiative," he snapped. "If you need a new assignment, I think McGruder's steno team could use some help transferring the dead files to microfiche. I believe they're up to 'BA'. That could be a nice long-term role for you if field work is getting too strenuous."

Maxwell once again had to marvel at his own remarkable self-restraint. It would be so easy to staple Carlisle's head to the desk.

"As a matter of fact, sir," Maxwell said, pasting on a big smile, "I was about to come to your office. I need a couple of days out in the field to run down leads on this-"

He hesitated a fraction of a second while he performed his peripheral vision trick. Scan the room, see who wasn't there and was likely to be off doing something important then claim to be helping them. It was a skill he'd perfected in the Army, but it still came in handy from time to time.

"-case of Brown's," he finished with barely a pause.

Carlisle narrowed his eyes.

"Brown's," he said slowly.

Maxwell's smile widened. The peripheral vision trick worked even better when the officer didn't know what the other party was actually working on.

"Yes, sir," he said earnestly. "I've been backing him up on this case for a few days and I think it's time to go out and shake a few trees. See what falls out."

He watched Carlisle's mouth open and close wordlessly a few times.

"Yes, well," Carlisle said at last, "Maybe you should brief me on your progress before-"

"Oh, I couldn't do that, sir," Maxwell said with just the right note of concern in his voice. "I should really let Brownie do that. It's his case. I'm just the backup man."

"Of course, well," said Carlisle, stiffening into his 'let's not forget I'm in control here' posture. "Good. Brown's a good agent. You can learn a lot from him."

"Yes, sir," said Maxwell. "I'm going to start right away."

He stood, pushing the chair back with his legs.

"I don't know how often I'll be able to check in, sir," he said, pretending to sift through the small stack of papers at the side of his desk. "I'll let Brownie make the call."

"Obviously," said Carlisle, nodding, "You just follow his lead."

"Absolutely, sir," said Maxwell as he draped his suit coat over his arm and looked down at Carlisle.

He had to admit, this was his favorite part. He really enjoyed seeing Carlisle try to hold a conversation with him without looking up and so demonstrating who was the taller man.

This time, Carlisle opted to stare out the window as he said, "Tell Brown I said he should take some extra time with you. Consider it refresher training."

"I'll do that, sir," Maxwell said, nodding vigorously.

And then came the moment he always half-dreaded. The moment when he had to push his luck.

"Uh, Mr. Carlisle, sir," he said, adjusting the coat over his arm, "There's just one more thing."

Carlisle looked up with a suspicious tilt to his eyebrow then looked away quickly.

"Well, what is it, Maxwell?" he said.

"Well, he, Brownie, I mean, he asked if I could-" Maxwell said. "Well, sir, he asked if I could requisition a new vehicle. For surveillance."

Carlisle's head shot up. His mouth gaped open like a bass going for a fly.

"I told him you wouldn't give me one, sir," he said quickly, "Seeing as how I don't have the best record with company cars, but Brownie, he wanted me to ask, so…"

He watched Carlisle's pinched face contort with the strain of decision. Maxwell played both sides of the argument in his head.

'I can't give Maxwell another car. He'll only wreck it and besides the only way I can control him is with these petty policies. On the other hand, Brown's a good man, a real team player. If I let Brown have the car, that'll really show Maxwell something. Yes, that's what I'll do.'

Maxwell waited patiently, giving Carlisle the full force of his wide-eyed, hopeful look.

"All right, Maxwell," Carlisle said at last. "_Agent Brown_ can have his car. You can pick it up in the motor pool and deliver it."

Carlisle's tiny eyes glittered with satisfaction as he went on, "Pick out whichever vehicle you think Brown would like. An agent like Brown deserves the best equipment"

Maxwell turned his mouth down in a sulky frown, doing his best to look offended. He had to admit, it didn't take a lot of acting skill.

"Yes, sir," he said. "I'll take good care of Brownie's vehicle."

"Excellent," said Carlisle. "I'm confident working with Brown will bring out a new side of you Maxwell. Take all the time you need on this case."

Carlisle apparently couldn't resist pushing the envelope either.

"I hope that at the end of this," he said, "We'll get two good agents out of it, instead of just one."

That crack took another healthy dose of the patented Maxwell self-control, but he managed to get out of the room without leaving a Carlisle-shaped hole in the wall.

And it was worth it, he reflected as he pulled out of the motor pool a few minutes later. Who knew they kept cherry red BMW convertibles in the garage for the "good agents"?

Of course, he reflected, what he ought to do was call Brown on his new top of the line car phone and let him in on the line he'd just fed Carlisle. That'd be the smart thing to do. But what would be the fun in that?

----------

When he hit the Boulevard, he called Pam's office again. This time, after the usual five rings, he held the line while the call cycled back to the reception desk.

"Mrs. Davidson-Hinkley doesn't seem to be answering her line, sir," said the slightly nasal female voice on the other end. "Shall I leave her a message?"

Davidson-Hinkley? Maxwell cocked an eyebrow. That was the first he'd heard of a hyphen. For the last eight months, Pam always went by Hinkley around him.

"Uh, no, listen, honey," he said into the receiver. "Do you have Mrs. Davidson-Hinkley's schedule? I was wondering when she'd be in the office."

"Just a moment, sir," the receptionist answered in the ever-so put upon voice of oppressed functionaries everywhere.

She came back after a 30-second pause.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, "It looks like Mrs. Davidson-Hinkley stopped into the office this morning to make arrangements to work remotely. She won't be in the office again until… I don't see an end-date, sir."

"She will be calling the office to check her messages," the voice said, apparently moved to be a little more helpful in light of the bad news she'd just delivered. "Would you like to leave your number?"

"Ah, yeah, probably," he said, just to keep her interested. "Does it say where she's working remotely from?"

"I'm afraid I couldn't give out that information, sir," the voice said reproachfully. "Would you like to leave your number?"

"Uh, no, uh-uh," he said absently. "Thanks sweetheart, you've been a big help."

He broke the connection and stared down the long straight vista of Sunset. "Remotely" covered a lot of ground. Pam could be anyplace from Palmdale to the Poconos.

Of course, he reasoned, there were a few places she was likelier to be than watching Schecky Lavine crack up the blue hairs in the cocktail lounge at the Skytop Inn. Minnesota, for one.

He grimaced. Minnesota would be a last resort. Who would want to hear their mother say, "He seemed like such a nice boy," at a time like that?

Maxwell knew he could find her. It wouldn't take the full resources of the FBI LA Field Office to track down one woman. Even a lawyer probably didn't know just how easy it was to follow a person by their trail of credit card receipts.

He could have her pinpointed to a three-block radius if she was eating out. Closer if she was in a hotel.

As he rolled past a line of tour busses parked along the Strip, he noticed the curious looks the car was getting from the good citizens of Boise or Biloxi or wherever the hell they were from.

Probably thought he was a movie star or something, he decided. They could see the car and his mirrored shades and that was about it, but that was enough to build a story on. Half of them would go home saying they'd seen Robert Redford driving around. One gray-haired geezer in a fast car looked pretty much like another from a distance.

He turned northwest and cut a lazy circle back toward Santa Monica. The receptionist couldn't tell him where Pam was, he thought, that didn't mean she didn't know.

The Counselor wasn't likely to appreciate his running her through the system like a common perp. In fact, he knew, she wasn't likely to appreciate his tracking her down at all.

But at least if he took the old-fashioned technique of asking questions, he could always say he was just checking up on her. It would take a little extra work, but it would keep him occupied while he gave her twenty-four hours to break cover on her own.

Then, if he crapped out on the gumshoe approach, which he was admittedly rusty at, he could always call out the sniffer dogs.

He banked the car toward the ocean and cruised toward the Santa Monica Pier. The first thing he needed was a better disguise.

----------

Maxwell adjusted the tilt of his new Floral Creations Delivery Service baseball cap (a bargain at ten bucks slipped to the kid sweeping out the vans) and gave the massive bouquet of blood red roses a quick once-over.

He'd debated about a more restrained arrangement, but figured why risk half-measures when whole-measures were guaranteed to get a reaction? And nothing got a reaction out of an oppressed receptionist like three-dozen long stemmed roses.

He pushed open the glass doors of the law office and strolled inside, bouquet held out like a flag of Parlay. The receptionist's eyes visibly dilated when she beheld the floral masterpiece. He flashed her his best and brightest smile. After that, he just had to relax and let the flowers do the talking.

----------

Twenty minutes later Maxwell was working his way up Venice Boulevard. The roses were stowed safely behind the passenger seat. Between those and the Mediterranean blue bowl in the trunk, he might be able to talk Pam into forgiving him for running the spy routine at her place of business. Maybe.

He braked at the corner of South La Brea, rolled down the passenger window, and tossed the ball cap out the window onto a bus stop bench. He let out the brake and headed on toward West Pico.

If he planned to leave for the Monterey Peninsula at 5:00 in the morning, that gave him a little more than twelve hours to kill. Cleaning his guns, packing a duffel bag, and making a couple of calls to hotels in Carmel would burn through 90 minutes. That left a lot of time for sitting and thinking.

There were better ways to spend the evening than driving himself crazy. He turned into a drive-through liquor store and rolled up to the window.

----------

Ralph Hinkley's phone rang at 11:30. He grabbed the receiver off the cradle and nearly brained himself with the handset.

"Pam?" he said and listened to the silence on the other end of the line.

"So she ain't back then."

It was Bill Maxwell. His voice sounded rough, but more than that, he still sounded angry.

Ralph exhaled a long, shuddering breath. He'd gotten over his anger at Bill not long after he'd taken off from the warehouse loading dock. It hadn't taken him long to figure out he was angrier with himself than he was with his partner. He was very self-aware. It was a mixed blessing.

"No, Bill," he said. "I haven't heard from her and I don't know where she is."

He hesitated, biting his lip.

"Do you know where she is?" he said at last.

"I've got a pretty good idea," Bill said.

Ralph nodded into the phone.

"I assume you used your usual methods," Ralph said noncommittally.

"You got usual methods, too, kid," Bill answered.

Ralph sighed.

"She left a note," he said. "She asked me not to use the suit to find her. She said she'd call when she had some things worked out in her mind. I have to respect her wishes."

Bill snorted.

"That'd be a first," he said.

Ralph felt his blood pressure start to rise again. He struggled to keep his voice even. He wanted to phrase his next words very carefully.

"Bill," he said slowly, "I can't stop you from going to find her if that's what you want to do. Just remember this is something she and I have to work out when she's ready. And I didn't send you, okay? I-"

There was a movement across the room and Ralph looked up at the petite blonde with the angelic heart-shaped face standing in the doorway to the living room. Her light blue eyes were wide and questioning.

"Uh, Bill, listen," he said more quickly than he intended. "Call me in a couple of days either way, all right?"

There was a noise on the other end of the line that sounded distinctly like a growl.

"Rhonda's there right now, isn't she?" Bill said, his voice a low rumble.

"I'll talk to you in a couple of days," Ralph said quietly.

"You jackass," Bill said and the line went dead.

----------

Just north of Santa Barbara, Maxwell put the top down on the BMW. The sun was already climbing over the eastern hills and shining off the waves. He adjusted his aviators to compensate for the double glare and passed a produce truck like it was going backwards.

He was hugging the coast instead of flying up the inland highway. The time difference wouldn't be that much on a weekday morning, and he didn't want to get into Carmel before there were plenty of other pedestrians out and about for cover.

Carmel was a small town as coastal cities went. He'd have no trouble tracking down the Counselor by lunchtime. Especially if she didn't know she was being tracked.

An hour out of Santa Maria, he tried the radio again. There was still no news. The only station that came in clearly was coming to the end of a jangling pop tune. He got as far as the bubbly DJ chirping, "That was 'Tell Her About It' by Billy Joel! Next up, 'Every Breath You Take' by the Police as we spin through Today's Top Tunes!"

He flipped off the sound and drove with just the screeching of the sea birds for company. He was sure he had to be better off ignoring his own thoughts than ignoring his own thoughts and the radio, too.

A half hour later he knew he was kidding himself. His brain kept cycling through the same stale ideas like the DJ cycled through songs.

The same series of images had been showing on the movie screen in his mind for the past eight months. Since Christmas of last year. Since that night at Pam's apartment.

He saw Pam in her flame red dress, shaking her hips playfully, her dark mahogany hair bouncing in loose curls against her bare neck.

Pam sitting next to him at Abrazo. Her lips parted and her eyes shining as she stared in fascination at the couples on the dance floor.

Pam standing spread legged in the alley with her borrowed gun leveled at three street punks, each one three times her size. That one always made him grin.

Pam kneeling beside him in the alley. Her pale hand hovering over his bleeding chest. Her baby blue eyes staring into his, wide and frightened.

Pam sitting cross-legged on the floor of her apartment in her silky white pajamas, looking up at him and laughing.

Pam's beautiful face hovering over his as he caught his breath after the most surprising kiss of his long life.

Pam's body, long and lean and absolutely perfect as her silky pajamas slipped to the floor.

Pam looking up from between his knees with laughing eyes, her lips wet and red.

Pam, glowing like an angel in the pale morning light, and her little sigh as she eased herself down over him.

By the time he got to that one, he was always hard as a rock.

He shifted in his seat and adjusted his jeans. Not for the first time, he decided he must be crazy, going on this fool's errand after his best friend's wife.

What would he say to her when he found her? What could he possibly say that wouldn't sound just as stupid as he felt?

His mouth set in a tight frown and he pressed down on the accelerator. Plenty of time to worry about that when the time came, he thought. Right now, a little bit of tempting fate at 110 mph on a winding coast road was just what he needed to clear his mind.

----------

He pulled into Carmel-by-the-Sea at 10:15 and parked the car under the shady trees on Ocean Avenue. As he reached for the lightweight navy windbreaker in the back seat, he noticed there was just a mild twinge under the bandage on his upper arm. In a week, tops, it would just be another scar.

He slipped the jacket up over his shoulders and adjusted the drape over his leather shoulder holster. The weather was already too warm for even the windbreaker on this August morning, but the jacket would attract less attention than his gun.

He walked east toward Dolores Street. It was as good a place to start as any. Pam would fit right in with the neat rows of galleries and boutique shops.

As he turned onto Dolores his eyes scanned down the line of squat British-village style buildings with their sloped and shingled roofs and the bright bushel-baskets of flowers outside each door.

Even on a weekday morning, foot traffic was heavy on the wide flag-stoned sidewalks of the promenade. He took an easy walking pace, resisting the urge to let his legs eat up the ground in wide strides that would cover the length of the street in five minutes.

Several times he stopped to admire a paint-daubed canvas or set of rose covered dishes in one of the shop windows. He wouldn't be able to describe them afterward to save his life. He was too busy scanning the reflection of the street behind him to tell one brightly colored gewgaw from another.

On his second circuit up the shade-dappled avenue he saw her. She was coming out of a teashop with a small rosy-pink shopping bag over one arm. She had her back to him, but he would've known the long sweep of her mahogany-colored hair anywhere.

She was wearing a white cotton peasant-style blouse. The wide neck had slipped off one shoulder, showing soft skin already turning a light caramel in the coastal sun.

Her white ruffled skirt swirled around her knees as she turned up the sidewalk. One hand with its fine, tapered fingers reached up to sweep the tumbled curls up and over her shoulder. He caught a brief glimpse of the nape of her neck before her hair fell back in a dark curtain to her waist.

At the sight, a sudden surge of emotion caught the breath in his throat. He was so startled by the intensity of it, it took him a full 8 seconds to notice the two muscle-bound hoods in khaki windbreakers pacing her on the other side of the street.

That fact alone was enough to convince him that Pamela Davidson-Hinkley was better off before he fell in love with her.

- continued -

Rafael's Mermaid

------------------


	3. Sea Spray: Chapter 3

**Rafael's Mermaid**

------------------

**PART 2**

Sea Spray

------------------

CHAPTER 3

Pam stopped to study a miniature seascape in a gallery window. She wouldn't have been able to explain why it was different from the hundreds of other watercolor seascapes that dotted the shops along Dolores Street. There was just something about the way the fine brush strokes swept up the curve of white sand along the edge of the vivid blue water that caught her imagination. It was like the idea of an ocean, rather than an actual representation of sea and land.

She glanced in the door of the shop uncertainly. By rights, she should be back at the Inn studying her briefs right now. It wasn't a vacation, after all, she reminded herself. She had told everyone at the office she'd be working on the Point Lobos file and that's what she planned to do.

But somehow, when she pulled onto the Scenic Road that ran along Carmel Beach the day before, the coruscating thoughts that had haunted her all the way up the coast had stilled. She felt peaceful for the first time in more than 24-hours. This little painting might remind her of that peace in the horrible days that were sure to come when she got back to reality and Ralph.

She had just resolved herself to go inside and ask about the price when a navy blue shape appeared at her elbow. She didn't glance up. That type always took the slightest bit of notice as permission to start hitting on her in the most outrageous ways.

The last thing she was interested in right now was wasting time fending off some clueless Casanova.

"That's a nice one," said a deep, rumbling voice just above her left ear. "I think you should get it."

She froze. She would know that voice anywhere, in dreams or awake. It was the second-to-last voice she wanted to hear right now.

"Bill," she said slowly, not looking away from the painting she could no longer see, "What are you doing here?"

"Partly just admiring this lovely piece of art," he said. "But mostly I'm watching the reflection of the two garbanzos across the street."

She stared straight ahead. If she didn't know Bill, this would sound like some kind of wild ploy. But she did know Bill. And she knew wild ploys weren't part of his standard repertoire.

"Thanks for not turning around," he went on conversationally. "I probably shoulda mentioned that right away, but that's par for the course today. Why don't we step into this shop for a minute so I can get a better look at your tail- uh, I mean the guys tailing you."

Wordlessly, she turned and walked through the door of the shop. Bill followed her a moment later, guiding her with a light touch on her elbow to the back corner of the shop by an open glass case full of ceramic knick-knacks.

When she finally looked up at him, he was staring over her head out the multi-paned window at the front of the store. His graying hair looked windswept and his jeans and jacket looked rumpled and road-worn. His hazel eyes were a deeper green than usual, a sign she knew meant deep emotions were in play. She couldn't read them in his impassive expression.

She risked a glance and after a moment picked out two bulky weight-lifter types studying a display of French crockery in the store across the street. They looked completely unfamiliar. She had no idea what would make Bill think they were following her.

"Bill," she said slowly, trying to control her seething emotions, "What are you doing here? Did Ralph send you?"

"Hmm?" he said conversationally, still focused on the window. "No, honey, Ralph didn't send me. What are you doing here?"

She took a deep breath. How much should she tell him, she wondered. How much did she want him to know?

"Hold it," Bill said before she could speak. "Let me rephrase that. I know why you're here. I heard-"

She felt the blood rise in her face.

"You heard about it?" she said, struggling to keep from shouting, as if all of the half dozen people in the small space couldn't hear their conversation anyway.

"Did Ralph tell you about this one, too?" she said. "Is there more I should know?"

"No, no, hold on," he said, glancing down at her and looking away quickly. "You've got it turned around. I heard you two over the communicator Sunday, that's all."

"No," he said, staring out the window. "Ralph didn't tell me about Rhonda. I was as surprised as you."

"Maybe not in the same way," she said levelly.

"No, probably not," he agreed. "Listen, let me lay out the whole scenario for you before you ask any more questions, 'cause I'm doin' a bad job of answering 'em."

He glanced over at the glass case at his shoulder and lifted out a ceramic creamer in the shape of a cow.

"Do me a favor," he said, handing her the creamer, "And look at this little cow pitcher thing real hard while I talk. The boys across the street are getting restless."

She did as he asked, although it went against every instinct. She would have been much happier, she realized, pushing over the cabinet and storming out of the shop.

Instead, she listened as he explained about hearing their conversation, tracking her down, and that he hadn't talked to Ralph at all since Sunday.

Under normal circumstances, she might have been angry about the tracking her down part. But under the current circumstances, she decided, that was a very small thing to be concerned about.

"So what I need to know," he said at the end of the speech, "Is what you're working on here that would make somebody send two sides of beef from the local Muscle Beach Club to follow you. I'm guessing it's not 'cause you look so nice in that dress."

She glanced up in surprise and caught the frozen look on his face.

"Christ," he said softly, "I really didn't mean to say that. Maybe we'd better just call the cops and I'll go ahead and slope off to the Old Fed's Home."

She smiled in spite of herself as she put the little ceramic cow back in its spot on the shelf.

"I'll take my chances with you," she said softly. "On a bad day, you're my best bet."

He shrugged noncommittally.

"Yeah, well," he said, "We'll see what you say if I get us out of here without a fire fight. So tell me what you're working on."

"Oh," she said, picking up a green glass dolphin and turning it over in her hands. "It's an environmental impact case. Some local activists petitioned our office to help them file a 'friend of the court' brief on the effects of a proposed land deal on the Monterey peninsula. If it goes forward, it will change the shape of the land delta off the coast and could potentially impact migratory patterns for a number of species. They're concerned that it hasn't received the requisite due diligence from the zoning authority and there may be kickbacks involved. They think a filing will help them raise money for a proper-use study. I'm here doing interviews."

He nodded.

"Some tree huggers want you to help 'em stop a dirty land deal."

She blinked

"Um, yes," she said. "Only they're whale huggers I think."

"Right," he said. "Okay, here's the scenario. These no-neck garbanzos are provided courtesy of the local Uncle Moneybags-"

He raised his eyebrows and she obediently filled in, "Fiodor Glenn."

He blinked.

"You kidding?" he said.

She shook her head.

He inhaled sharply.

"O-kay," he said, "With a name like 'Fiodor,' stands to reason you'd have a chip on your shoulder. So Fiodor sends the brain trust around to check up on you. See who you're talking to."

He looked down again.

"Who're you talking to?"

She sighed.

"Well, nobody yet," she said. "Since I got in yesterday afternoon I haven't done much except-"

She looked down at the green glass dolphin. Saying, 'except cry and feel horrible about myself,' sounded much too pathetic to say out loud.

"Except be miserable," he said.

She looked up and found him studying her with such an intense expression of understanding, that she felt the tears start in her eyes again. She drew in a shuddering breath, trying to reassert control.

He didn't hold her or pat her hand or put an arm around her shoulder. He didn't touch her at all. If he had, she knew, she would have gone to pieces right there in the shop. He just nodded and looked back toward the window. The muscles in his strong jaw clenched.

"So you haven't talked to the locals yet," he said tightly. "That's good. That means Fiodor's flunkies are still playing watch-and-wait. We'll let 'em do plenty of both. You want that picture?"

He looked back down at her and cocked an eyebrow.

"It's a beaut," he said. "I'm gonna get it. You keep playing with your dolphin there and wander over toward that inside door."

He cocked his head toward a door in the back wall marked "Employees Only." She frowned.

"What are we going to do?" she said.

"Give Heckyl and Jeckyl heartburn," he answered.

She did as instructed. She carried the dolphin closer to the inside door and pretended to study it under the halogen micro-spotlight hanging from the ceiling there.

It was strange the things you could get used to, she thought. A couple of years ago, being trailed by hired goons would have been a noteworthy experience. But after a few years of gangsters, Russians, and the American Nazi Party, she could almost take a couple of thugs in stride. Still, she was glad she didn't have to do it alone.

The cash register chimed and Bill appeared at her elbow with a flat package wrapped in brown paper.

"Ready?" he said.

She nodded and placed the dolphin carefully on a nearby display stand.

Bill took a step forward and she let him herd her backwards toward the Employees Only door.

"Step on through, perfectly normal," he said under his breath. "The little girl behind the counter'll be too shocked to say anything, I guarantee."

Just as he said, Pam turned silver doorknob and pushed the door open. She stepped through into a plain white room lined with neatly stacked cardboard boxes. Bill stepped in behind her and closed the door. They walked quickly past a time clock and small card table supporting a Mr. Coffee that was bubbling through the end of brew cycle.

Bill inhaled deeply as they walked through a cloud of coffee scented air.

"First thing we do," he said. "Is coffee-up. I ain't had any crank since LA. I'm starting to DT."

She nodded as he reached past her to push the safety bar on the back door.

"I wouldn't mind a cup, eith-" she started, but was interrupted by a small voice from the inner door.

"Um, excuse me?" said the pretty blonde shopgirl. "I'm sorry-"

"No problem, honey," Bill said, flashing his brightest megawatt grin, "You're doin' a great job. We'll let ourselves out."

Pam suppressed a grin as she slid past his arm and stepped through the open door into the service alley behind the shop.

The bright sunlight here was almost blinding and the heat fell on her like a physical force. She blinked up at the pale blue and cloudless sky.

The silence suddenly asserted itself on her mind and she looked over to find Bill staring at her. The instant their eyes met, he coughed and looked away.

"Okay," he said and cleared his throat, "We gotta get you moved to a new base of operations while Heckyl and Jeckyl are still tryin' to find their backsides with both hands and a flashlight. You're at the Sea Spray Inn, right?"

She blinked.

"Yes," she said slowly. "I was that easy to find?"

He shrugged and started up the alley. She took two quick steps to catch up.

"It's not your fault," he said, glancing down at her as she fell into step beside him. "Most folks don't know the basics of falling off the map. There are three main rules. Don't use a credit card. Don't use your own name or any variation of it."

"Including maiden name," he added, glancing at her meaningfully. "And, most important, don't tell your unmarried lady receptionist where to reach you in an emergency, 'cause to her, three dozen roses are an emergency."

Pam cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Three dozen roses?" she said.

"They're in the car," he said. "If you don't want 'em I'll make sure the girl at the coffee shop has a really good day."

"How are you going to convince Carlisle to reimburse you for three dozen roses?" she said.

"I'm on a roll with Carlisle," he said. "I'll tell him they're for Brownie. He'll fall down tryin' to sign the chittie faster."

"Who's Brownie?" she said.

"I'll explain it later," he said. "When you see the car."

That seemed to finish the conversation and Pam began to mentally tick off the things she'd need to do to check out of the Sea Spray. Reflexively, she sidestepped a puddle of greasy water and the movement sparked a memory that abruptly thrust her back in time to Christmas Eve eight months ago.

The circumstances were completely different. She'd been driving herself crazy with wild fantasies about Bill. She'd been afraid for their safety. On some level, she'd still been angry with Ralph over his affair with Alicia.

Come to think of it, she realized, it wasn't that different. Although this time the evening was not going to end with Bill in her bed.

She had known at the time, the memory of that one night would have to last. And it had. She hated to admit, even to herself, how many times she'd browsed through the mental snapshots of that night.

One in particular, had gotten considerable mileage in her imagination. That was the picture of Bill, the thin dawn light touching his hair and face as he whispered, "Beautiful," just before she eased herself down over him.

With a start, she realized he was saying something.

She caught "-on me, if you want," and then he looked down at her.

"Uh, what?" she said intelligently.

"Coffee," he said, looking at her oddly. "On me, if you want it. I'll get it while you're packing and meet you outside the hotel. Here we are."

She looked up in confusion. There was the turquoise and white gingerbread trimmed house. He had indeed led her out of the alley and to the front of the Inn while she'd been lost in thought.

"Um, sure," she said, "Coffee sounds great. Light, no-"

"No sugar," he finished, "No problem. If you get done before I get back, don't leave the building. Wait for me in the lobby."

She nodded her agreement and waited for him to turn away. He continued to stare at her.

"What?" she said at last, feeling a blush start in her chest.

"Well, go on in," he said, cocking his head at the door. "Waiting inside starts now."

"Right," she said. "Sorry. I'm just a little…"

Her voice trailed off and she looked up at the light blue sky.

"You're off balance," he said, quietly. "I know. It'll get better. But not for a while."

She nodded, blinking hard and moved to step into the lobby.

She turned when she got inside the leaded glass doors and watched him walk back up the street. His long, lean legs covering the ground in easy strides.

She gave herself a little shake and moved to the staircase, nodding at the girl at the desk as she passed.

Upstairs, she walked to her room, the last on the first floor and the one with the best partial view of the sea.

She'd been lucky to get it in season, she thought, as she slotted in her room key. Thanks to that last minute cancellation. She hoped the lodging Bill came up with would at least be pleasant enough to work in. She had limitless faith in him as a friend, but somewhat more circumscribed faith in his taste in accommodations.

She pushed open the door and froze. She'd heard about rooms being ransacked. Now she knew what it looked like first hand.

----------

- continued -

Rafael's Mermaid

_Author's Note:_

_This concludes the first posted installment of Rafael's Mermaid. Sign up for an Author Alert to be notified when the continuation of Part 2 is published. _


End file.
